“What ’id you hear?”
“I heard she wa’n’t a-goin’ to—get well.”
There was a long silence.
“Is she?” he asked, then. His voice was low and broken.
Mrs. Endey sat down. “I do’ know,” she said, after another silence. “I’m offul worried about her, Orville. I can’t make out what ails ’er. She won’t eat a thing; even floatin’ island turns agi’n ’er—an’ she al’ays loved that.”
“Oh, Mis’ Endey, can’t I see ’er?”
“I don’t see ’s it ’u’d be any use. Emarine’s turrable set. ’F you hadn’t went an’ told your mother that if there was any knucklin’-down to be did between her an’ Emarine, Emarine ’u’d have to do it, you an’ her’d ’a’ b’en married by this time. I’d bought most ha’f her weddin’ things a’ready.”
The young man gave a sigh that was almost a groan. He looked like one whose sin has found him out. He dropped into a chair, and putting his elbows on his knees, sunk his face into his brown hands.
“Good God, Mis’ Endey!” he said, with passionate bitterness. “Can’t choo ever stop harpin’ on that? Ain’t I cursed myself day an’ night ever sence? Oh, I wish yuh’d help me!” He lifted a wretched face. “I didn’t mean anything by tellin’ my mother that; she’s a-gettin’ kind o’ childish, an’ she was afraid Emarine ’u’d run over ’er. But if she’ll only take me back, she’ll have ev’rything her own way.”
A little gleam of triumph came into Mrs. Endey’s face. Evidently the young man was rapidly becoming reduced to a frame of mind desirable in a son-in-law.